Animus
by Empty Dragon
Summary: As far as we can discern, the sole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light of meaning in the darkness of mere being."-C.G. Jung


**I've been lurking around this fandom for a few weeks reading stuff and I finally decided to post something. This plot bunny wouldn't leave me alone, so here's my first Watchmen fanfic (based off the GN). I hadn't written anything in a while, so I had a dear friend beta-read it for me. She's a word-flowing genius. If you like it, thank her for making this sound more awesome then the original. **

**Disclaimer: I will never own Watchmen, otherwise Rorschach would live and beat the crap out of Veidt. Then the world would bow down to Rorschach's awesomeness and everyone would live happily ever after.**

Animus

A clock ticks. _Tick. Tock. Tick._ Steady like the throbbing at my temple and the whimpering of the mouse in front of me.

"I'm depressed." He says forlornly, wringing his hands together and shifting on the leather couch. He swallows thickly and stares at the carpet. "My wife left me." The middle-aged man crumples, burying his face in his hands like an ostrich with sand. As if he can hide from his problems. My eye twitches as an oily strand of his comb-over flops out of place. He chokes out, "I can't seem to-"

"Get over it." I state strongly, trying to alleviate my growing irritation by rapidly tapping a blue pen against my clipboard. My anxiousness to leave the room grows with each second this sniveling mouse wastes my time.

His head whips up, eyes red and crusty, nose blotchy and oozing, and sniffs loudly before whispering,

"Wha-"

"You heard my statement." I struggle to keep my eyes neutral as I take in the sad sight. I assert clearly, concisely, and completely neutral, "You have two choices. Either you go find another woman or you can start acting like a man and get your wife back." My eyes shift up towards the clock. 6:00 P.M. "Times up."

"B-but I-"

I am off duty. No longer am I a psychologist. I am now an irritated citizen.

I stand up and fix my hardened gaze into dull, grey eyes small and bleary.

"My day has ended. Right now, I would like to go home and enjoy a very large glass of red wine." I clench my teeth momentarily and lower my eyes into a glare, "Your whining is giving me a headache. So, either go find another woman or act like a man. But whatever you do," I harden my words as my voice crescendos, "be absolutely sure it does not include coming back here to complain to me about your problems when the solutions are so damn obvious!"

The man trembles while the leather couch squeaks in protest as his grubby fingers tighten their hold.

I relax my tense shoulders and stalk to the door, muttering just loud enough for him to hear, "I don't even know why you needed to talk to me in the first place."

I slam the door shut behind me and hear an airy sigh.

"You really need to stop being so harsh with your patients. Otherwise you'll get fired." The blonde receptionist warns, sparing me a glance above her endless nail filing as I sign out for the day. She then turns to admiring her reflection in a bubble-gum pink pocket mirror.

I resist the oncoming sneer. Disgusting narcissistic bitch.

"So instead of informing my patients of reality I should sugar-coat everything like the fat bastard who used to work upstairs?" I finish harshly, "No, I prefer giving my patients the truth, even if it does hurt."

She scoffs, "You're still jealous that he took the Rorschach case?" She rolls her make-up caked eyes, "Jesus, Carrie. They're both dead! Why does it matter?"

I sign my name with a flourish. "Because, Mina." I put the pen down and stare through her. "Some things deserve to matter."

Turning, I stroll over to the elevator and push a faded button. The elevator opens, and I step inside.

Hm. This must be confusing for you. I suppose I should have started with an introduction. My name is Carrie Thompson. I was born February 16th, 1960, and grew up never knowing my father. According to my mother, they were both incredibly drunk. She claims that he was far more intoxicated than she was. I think she likes to tell herself that because he left before she even woke up. While she doesn't remember his name, she does remember his face. Sometimes I catch her staring at me, muttering about how much I look like him and then walking back to her room in a daze. Makes sense that I would take after my father. After all, I bare very little resemblance to my mother.

My mother is short. She has blue eyes, supple curves, and always smells like a weird fruit perfume. Curly long tresses of deep chocolate that she obsesses over frame her round face. She spends hours working stuff through her hair and caking make-up on, which I find revolting. Whenever she gets the chance, my mother loves to dress up in fashionable clothing and glittering jewelry. In short, she's pretty much the average middle-class American woman.

I, on the other hand, am almost nothing like her. I'm pale and lean like a beanpole, though only three inches taller than my mother. My eyes are a muddy hazel and really stand out against my flaming red hair that I chop short for the convenience, of course. I've never been interested in all things feminine. In fact, I find them repulsive. I don't necessarily hate women (especially since I am one); I just dislike most of them, men included. I suppose you could say I'm asexual.

Comparatively, my childhood was extremely normal. No traumatic incidents or child abuse or any other shit. Life included my mother, our not-so-impressive apartment, and me. I suppose the one highlight of my childhood was my fascination with super heroes. While every other little girl in America played with pseudo make-up and plastic dolls, I was always scouring tossed-aside newspapers for articles on superheroes and buying action figures with the change I saved up. I wanted to fight crime, see evil punished. I wanted to be a hero.

Whenever I was asked who my favorite hero was, my answer surprised them. Why? Because my hero was, and will forever remain, Rorschach. Strange isn't it, for a little girl to admire a ruthless vigilante like Rorschach? I didn't think so. For some reason, I felt it was right of him to treat criminals the way he did. It felt completely justified to me, and I wanted to do the same. I even took up boxing lessons when I was twelve, convinced that I would become a crime-fighting vigilante like Rorschach. I even dreamed about meeting him one day. But as I grew older, I realized that I couldn't. To this day I still wonder why I quit. I suppose I lost the drive. My will died. I still continued with boxing, but instead of dropping out of high school and donning a mask and cape, I went to college. I graduated in the spring of 1982 with a degree in psychology.

Why psychology? Because I like puzzles, and the human mind is the most complex of all, just waiting to be solved. I don't really care about their feelings and shit. I care about the solution to a puzzle. A majority of my patients have had such obvious solutions to their mental problems and real-life issues. They're weak and pathetic. I give them the answer and they think I'm insane. Everyone I work with says I need to be more empathetic. I don't need empathy. It's stupid and useless. Empathy makes people weak. What people really need is the truth, and that's what I give them.

Now it's 1985 and everything has changed. The world that was once on the brink of nuclear destruction has started to come back together at the cost of three million lives. More importantly, the one man I respected the most is dead. Rorschach, aka Walter Kovacs, is dead.

I still remember seeing his unmasked face in the headlines of the newspaper just six weeks ago. His face . . . for some reason I can't help but think how similar his face is when compared to mine. We have the same shade of flaming red hair, same eye color, same pale skin dotted with freckles, and a similar facial structure, though my features are softer and more feminine. Strange, isn't it? I think it's just a damn coincidence.

Mother, on the other hand, did not. Suddenly she was convinced that Walter was my father. I had never laughed so hard in my life. Rorschach, my father? Ridiculous! We may look alike, but I highly doubted Rorschach was my father. He may be my hero, but that doesn't mean I'd want to be his kid. That'd be too much of a burden. Additionally, Rorschach didn't seem like the type of guy to get drunk and have sex with a random woman. The whole situation just didn't seem possible! I couldn't see how anyone would think of that.

But my mother did. She even went so far as to see him in prison. I wasn't too surprised when she told me where she went. She's not very bright. What did surprise me was when she called to rub it in my face about how she was right. Unfortunately for her, I was too busy dropping the phone and running to the nearest toilet to listen to her gloating. Was this some kind of ironic joke that Fate felt like dropping on me? The whole concept just seems unreal. And now that Rorschach is gone, does this mean I have to pick up where he left off?

I can't! I'm a psychologist. It's not a very lenient job. I may know how to box, but I'm not physically strong enough to lift up men and slam them into things or hold my own against three or more men! And killing? Well, yes, I suppose I'd be fine with killing criminals or beating them to a bloody pulp. They usually deserve it. But I can't! The whole thing is just a silly childhood dream.

And yet here I am, right now, walking to his empty apartment because the nagging voice inside my head insists I should check it out. Pointless! This whole thing is pointless. What could I possibly find in Rorschach's apartment? A deeply emotional letter to tell me how sorry he is for not knowing he had a daughter and some other shit? No! I'll find nothing, nothing at all.

Another two blocks and I'm there. The building is a little worse for wear. It's gotten a new paint job and some pressure washing, but anyone could imagine how bad it looked pre-catastrophe. The only possible reason for its recent clean-up is probably to attract future tenants. I step up to the front door and press the doorbell that's already starting to build up grime.

Three or four locks click and slide open. Even though we live in peace now, we all still retain some habits. A sense of nervousness creeps up my throat as a robust woman opens the door. Her dress is clean and freshly pressed. Her hair is dark brown and combed to knot at the top of her head. My eyes sweep over her face to see webs of wrinkles and inch-thick make-up. A cigarette is pinched between her fingers and acrid smoke mushrooms from her mouth as she croaks, "Whatta you want?"

I switch into psychologist mode. "I am here to see the late Walter Kovac's apartment."

The woman grunts and inhales more nicotine. "How come?"

I observe the smoke as she exhales it through our nose, and reply, "It is a matter of personal interest."

The landlady quirks her lips upward, as if amused. I am unaware of how long we stand there, staring at each other. I find myself growing increasingly aware of her every flaw. How her chin sags to the neckline of her navy blue dress. How her eyebrows are sketched in with a black pencil. How her posture and folds in her dress indicate straining on her waist, most likely a corset. Already I know that she has low self-esteem and cares about society's opinion. She is a follower. I can also tell that she secretly wants to go back to the dark days. She had more money then. I assume she used to be a prostitute. The clean-up and decent appearance is most likely a pathetic attempt to attract more men to the building. I highly doubt that'll work out for her.

My thoughts are interrupted as she takes an especially long drag her cigarette to the dregs, and then grounds it into an ashtray on a scratched table next to the door.

She mutters, "What the hell," and waves me in.

The place smells like stale cigarettes and kitty litter. I have to restrain myself from gagging.

The landlady shuffles behind a long desk and grabs a set of gold keys, hacking and coughing along the way. She makes her way back to me, holds up the keys, and glares at me. "You lose these or run away with em, I'm sending the police after yer ass."

I can do nothing but nod, and refrain from smiling as the cold keys are placed in my hand and a rush of mixed emotions bubble up from my stomach. Anxiety. Eagerness. Curiosity.

I ignore the unpleasant woman's mutterings of "rude, arrogant little bitch/whore/some other profanity" as I make my way up the squeaky stairs.

"Wait a minute!" The landlady croaks up the steps. I peer over the banister at her. She holds up a knotted finger, "One condition."

I nod.

She purses her waxy lips together and hisses, "Don't you ever come back. One look, that's it."

What an unpleasant woman! I nod again. I only need one look. As I continue back up the stairs, I find myself wondering how Rorschach ever put up with her. I'm fairly certain she muttered, "arrogant bitch/whore/some other profanity" when I turned around.

Seeing Rorschach's apartment, I felt the first and only wave of gratefulness for the one I grew up in. It was cramped. Three strides and I was across the room. It was stuffy. I checked out the air-conditioner and saw tufts of mold growing inside. Needless to say, the place smelled rank. I suppose that's the only reason thieves haven't raided it yet. Most of the smell is coming from the fridge. Figures. It hasn't been used in what, six weeks? I lost count. The days have all been running together lately ever since the squid/alien came and wiped out three million people.

Unsure of what else to do, I start digging through drawers and shelves. My lips quirk as I find very few clothes. I'm glad I inherited his lack of materialism, unlike my mother. The only items of interest are his books and journals. After flipping through one of his journals, I don't know how anyone could translate his scribbles. Pursing my lips, I suppose someone has to keep these, but I didn't bring anything to carry them in. Ah well. I place them back in the drawers and lean down to look under his worn mattress. Nothing. Why am I here again?

I sigh and wander around the room, looking at the floor as I pace aimlessly and count the imprints of my feet in the light dust. Nearing the bed, one of the floorboards shifts under my weight. Curiosity peaked, I bend to sit on my knees and pull at the loose board with my hands. My eyebrows meet my hairline as the board comes up easily. The nails had been removed. Lifting the board, a familiar black and white fabric comes into view from underneath it.

My eyes widen. I can feel my heart accelerating, my breath quickening. No . . . it can't be. Reality sets in like a hard stone. It is! With trembling hands, I raise the fabric and almost forget to breathe. It's one of Rorschach's masks.

The world gradually decelerates to snail speed, sounds seeping in from the window fading into a dull buzz. The inkblots shift to the warmth of my touch, like it wants more. As if it wants me to wear it so it can feel the warmth of a human face again. Unconsciously I had been lifting the mask up to my face, realizing what I was doing, I dropped my hands to my lap. No!

I won't. I can't! Excuses build up in my head as I resolutely glare at the wall. My job, no time, my mother, no help, but they gradually fade away as my gaze shifts away from the wall. The inkblots shift almost lazily, as if they were waking up. Their shapes are changing and reminding me of the damn inkblot test I occasionally have to use on my patients. Reason snaps back to the forefront of my mind. I have a job! I think the inkblots are mocking me. They slowly form into a demented smiley face, kind of like the one the Comedian wore. It's as if they're saying, "So what if you have a job? You hate it!" Clenching my teeth together, I'm about to throw the mask back into the dreaded space it came from when I see the rest of the costume. The tattered fedora, dirty brown trench coat, and even the white scarf are all sitting right in front of me. Anger immediately calmed, I pick up each article of clothing and place them almost reverently in a little pile beside me. They smell horrible, but I suppose that would help with blending in with the scum of this city.

The landlady has lit up another cigarette and is smoking it as she reads a raunchy romance novel. I vaguely hear her nag about where I got the clothes, but I'm operating in a daze. My movements are automatic. I find myself tossing the keys at her and walking to the door, stepping outside.

I leave the building, costume tucked underneath my jacket, and walk into a nearby alley. Hidden in the dark, I take out the costume, clenching it in my hands and glaring. I think it's mocking me. Mocking my childhood desires to fight crime, my admiration and respect for Rorschach. Most especially, it's mocking how weak I am compared to him, reminding me of my relation to him and that I should feel obligated to continue what my father started. But I can't! Just because I am his daughter doesn't mean I have to be a superhero. It doesn't matter how strongly I wanted to be a hero as a child. It doesn't matter how much I admire Ror-

My thoughts are interrupted by a rough whisper, almost breeze-like.

_Rorschach's gone. They're gone. All the masks are gone._

I frown. Logic has set in. He is gone. They're all gone. There's no one left. Crime—no—Evil never stops. It never takes a break. Peace is only temporary. Someone has to do something to keep the evil at bay. I look down at the mask in my hands. The inkblots are shifting faster, as if they're restless. It's like the mask is begging me to wear it.

_Do it . . ._

I hold the mask up to my face, and Rorschach stares back at me. I hear the warning clap of thunder. Lightening flashes, illuminating all the filth in the alley, reminding me how scum is constantly breeding, growing, never stopping. The rain starts to fall, washing some of the grime down the drains, as I put my face on.

**Well, what'd you guys think? For those of you who don't know this, the drinking age wasn't 21 until 1984. Before then, states had their own drinking age, and I think the most common was 18. Not entirely sure, but I couldn't find NY's drinking age before 1984. Anyways, I know it's a huge stretch/borderline OOCness/OOCness for Walter to get drunk and have sex, but I couldn't really think of any other scenario. Well, there's rape, but I doubt anyone wanted to rape a young Walter Kovacs.**

**I am very curious to know what you guys think of this. Is the OC a mary sue or not? Should I continue with another story, only multi-chaptered, about the OC or is it better as a oneshot? Did the story suck or did you think it was awesome? Constructive criticism is highly appreciated.**


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